


An Education

by that_runneth



Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 03:43:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_runneth/pseuds/that_runneth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loosely based on a prompt on tronkinkmeme: Flynn introduces Sam to the Grid at the age of seven. The coup happens, and both father and son get trapped on the Grid. Flynn escapes and becomes the head of the resistance, but Sam and Tron are captured and Sam grows up in Clu's court.</p><p>Illustrations by Nocek - nocek.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Education

**Author's Note:**

> A wonderful artist created a fanart to this story: http://nocek.tumblr.com/post/17180000337/kind-of-fanart-for-this-that-runneths-fanfic-i

Art by [Nocek](http://nocek.tumblr.com/)

 

I.    
  
  Sam Flynn was the luckiest kid on the world.  
  
  It had not been always like that; he remembered the sensation of great loss and the nameless terror that had been one of his first memories – he remembered that, but he could not recall what he had lost exactly and so the feeling had been overshadowed during the years. He saw the small pieces, the touchable memories of his mother all around; the photographs and the framed diplomas on the walls and shelves. There were the stories he heard from his grandparents and his father; and there was the silence that descended on them sometimes during conversations. Still, Sam had no own memories of his mother and aside from that nameless sadness, he felt free of the grief.  
  
  And other than that, he had everything one could wish. He had his dad, who was not like a dad at all, but someone, who shared Sam’s passion of those special toys and gadgets about which other kids could only dream. Even better, it was Sam’s dad, who actually designed those toys and brought them home. There were his grandparents for him and the friends of his family. He had his own room in the lake house and his custom-made PK Ripper bike. But the best of all was that own, magical private world to that he had been introduced on his seventh birthday. By then he knew everything about the Grid: that hidden universe that had never seen the sunlight, the city with the endless-looking boulevards and the residents of the system. Programs: that diverse crowd, most of them created by Sam’s father, and the ISOs, the own products of the system. There was Clu, his father’s digital double – and Sam was not quite certain, how he was supposed to feel about him; would it be like having a second dad? Still, he was the most excited about meeting Tron, about whom he had heard so much.  
  
  The bigger his disappointment was when his first trip to the Grid was to be postponed.  
  
  “What?” he asked his father, close to tears. “You promised me that you would take me there tomorrow.”  
  
  The conversation took place on the eve of his seventh birthday. Sam could not wait for the next day: not because of the celebration, the guests and the gifts - the real reason of his excitement was his dad’s promise about taking him to the Grid that night for the first time.  
  
  “I want to run a few more tests,” his father replied, his voice lacking the usual confidence and playfulness. “To make sure that it is safe.”  
  
  “But it is safe!” exclaimed Sam. “You’ve tried so many times!”  
  
  “Yes, but this time it is about you,” replied Flynn. “Your safety.”  
   
  “It’s safe enough for me, if it is safe for you,” insisted Sam. “Please, dad, you promised!”  
  
  And so there were they after the birthday party in the empty living room: around Sam there were his presents that he had barely looked at, on the table towered the cake that he had not touched. By then the guests had left, Sam’s grandparents, the Bradleys and a few kids from Sam’s class that had been picked up by their own parents at the end of the party. Sam had been excited all day and during the evening: any of his presents would have made him glad on any other day – now he had to pretend being interested and he let his friends play with the new toys. The cake was his favorite; this time it took en effort for him to eat a few spoonfuls.  He even noticed Alan Bradley looking at him with the same suspicious glance that he sometimes shot at Kevin Flynn as he was curious to know what the Flynns were up to again.  
  
  During the drive to the Arcade they were mostly silent: Flynn still seemed to be concerned, yet excited about the upcoming adventure. Sam was hungry; he regretted leaving his meals untouched earlier and was thinking about his cake in the refrigerator at home. He covered his discomfort; he did not want to delay the coming experience even by a short stop at a gas station for a snack.  
  
  The Arcade was closed by the time they arrived. The sign above the entrance was dark and the door locked. As they entered the premises Sam felt the smell of popcorn, beer and sweat in the air; he reached out and touched a gaming machine and found the buttons still warm. His father avoided turning up the lights, he just closed the door behind them. Sam had not been told before about the location of the office and he was exhilarated. Hidden doors, secret alleys and trips in the dark; this was more than adventurous and now he had a part in it. The office downstairs was untidy and had the appearance of a storage room; that look failed to mislead Sam. He knew that the important things happened here – and not here at the same time.  
  
  “Once you are there,” his father said, “I need you to stay calm. The office on the other side will look similar to this place, but there will be differences. It should be empty now. The only thing you have to do is to move away from the desk, so I can make the transmission too. Will you be okay?”  
  
  “Yes,” said Sam eagerly. He was seated at the desk, with his back to the laser. He felt fear: despite of his father’s explanations he thought that the shot of the laser would hurt; did not they show it in the movies all the time?  
  
  He wanted to ask for some time and his lips opened – but his voice got lost in the humming, deep sound of the laser.  
  
II.     
  
  Sam jumped and glanced around the room swiftly. It was dim and empty: his father had disappeared.  
  
  “Dad!” he yelled. His voice sounded odd in the room. Sam blinked and lifted his hand. It felt like gravitation that pulled his arm down, it felt like air that surrounded him – but there was no gravitation or air inside of a hard drive. What he saw and felt was only the interpretation of the real world.  
  
  “Cool,” he grinned. It was much quicker than he had thought and it did not hurt at all. Sam stepped away from the desk and waited. He was looking at the dark windows: light came in from the brightly lit street, something, that was similar to the headlights of passing vehicles. He was staring, pricking his ears for those distant, alien noises from the outside; he did not even notice when his father appeared in the room. His arrival was not announced by a flash of light or by any sound. He walked to Sam in a fast pace.  
  
  “Are you alright?” he asked. “How do you feel?”  
  
  “I…,” Sam started. His voice was trembling. “It’s real!”  
  
  Kevin Flynn laughed, took Sam’s hand and they walked out to the street.  
  
  The sidewalk and the roadway were wide and even. Blinking arrows and other various signs that were embedded in the smooth, black texture of the street appeared to be instructing the traffic – quiet cars and motorbikes. Tall, graceful buildings towered on both sides of the street: pedestrians walked along the dark walls that were illuminated by colorful neon panels. Two of the locals were standing right outside the entrance, apparently waiting for something. They were talking with each other, halfway turned toward the door and stopped their conversation when Sam and his father exited the building.  
  
  Sam was watching them with jaw dropped: Clu, who really looked like Kevin Flynn and Tron, who resembled to Alan Bradley, to the way Sam’s godfather had looked like on older pictures. The programs seemed to be very excited, even stunned: they were staring at Sam in silence.  
  
  “Hey,” said Sam shyly.  
  
  “Hi!” replied Tron with a bright, wide smile. Clu next to him folded his arms.  
  
  “Well, welcome,” he said politely. Kevin Flynn smiled, not sensing the slight awkwardness of the scene.  
  
  “So,” he said, “welcome to the Grid.”  
  
  On that night Sam was introduced to the system: first they were walking on the street together, talking, until other programs noticed the younger Flynn. The odd-looking User’s appearance caused such stir amongst the locals that after some mingling the four of them got on their bikes and started toward the city center. Sam shared the vehicle with his father, holding on tightly behind him; but the bike was stable and the run itself safe – it felt like riding in a dream. The skyscrapers of the inner city were bright and glorious above their heads. Sam was watching the buildings, the programs on the walkway and in other vehicles; Clu and Tron on their bikes. They were gracious in their black suits: the light circuits were glowing on the dark material.  
  
  He saw the main control room on the top of the administration hall – the place was technically Clu’s office. The window overlooked the city, offering a spectacular view: Sam looked at the gleaming lights of the other buildings and then down, at the busy street. He was shown the mighty libraries of books, music recordings and videos: part of that had been downloaded from the User world; the rest was the creation of the centuries-old Grid culture. At the end they went to the Arena to see a contest.  
  
  “Aren’t you tired?” his father asked once they were seated in their box.  
  
  “No,” replied Sam. He was exhausted, but there was no way that he would miss this event, which was the last one of the evening anyway. There was no daytime on the Grid; the work, entertainment and recharge cycles followed one another in a different rhythm and the city never slept. Sam had to, and he was aware of that, but he also knew that time was passing here in a slower pace and that he would be in his bed at the same time than he usually did at the end of the day.  
  
  “You’re a champion!” he exclaimed in the middle of the first battle, turning to Tron. “Will I see you down there?”  
  
  The program looked at him, with the same kind expression that had been on his face during the evening.  
  
  “Soon, Sam,” he replied.  
  
  He remembered the trip to the portal and the shiny, warm light of the transport beam – and the excitement kept him bouncing as they were walking to the car too, but he fell asleep on the way home. Next morning he woke up on his own and sat up in the bed suddenly, wondering if the adventure of the previous night had been real. He was not sure, not until he rose, walked in the kitchen and looked at his father, who was preparing the breakfast. Flynn was casual: he boiled water for the tea and put the slices of toast on a plate just the same as he did every morning, when he was actually there. He was silent – it was the mischievous glint in his eye that assured Sam about the night before.  
  
  Sam began to smile; he was the luckiest kid on the world.  
  
III.  
  
  The following few months were like a dream for Sam. During the weekdays he was in school and attended his usual training classes: after that someone – his father, his grandmother or sometimes Alan – picked him up. After dinner he finished his homework: then usually he went to the bed with a book and read until he fell asleep. But on other nights, and it happened two or three times a week, he and his father ate out and after dinner they went to the Arcade.  
  
  A new world opened up for Sam with all its mightiness, wonders and danger. He learnt to distinguish various programs upon their appearance and was taught their ways. He got to know the structure of the system, the inner city and the new districts. Soon he found out that the simplicity of the system was only a surface: that the logic of the digital world hid more context and tension than one expected. His father took him to test a new sailer and during the shaky ride, seeing Flynn’s cheerfulness he suddenly realized that they had never been that close in their lives, never in the real world. Clu taught him how to play the Grid-chess: a game that was played on a chessboard of 256 squares and with 64 pieces on both sides. Sam picked up the rules quickly, still, he did not have the patience for the game and he never stood a chance.  
  
  “I can’t beat him,” he yelled. He was sitting on the bike, behind Tron. They passed the busy corners of downtown: as they were heading out of the city the traffic lessened. Sam liked this the most: the ride, the blurred lights of the city, the soft hum of the vehicle, the quietness in the head.  
  
  “You have to concentrate,” replied Tron. “He’s the best player on the Grid.”  
  
  Faster, faster, Sam would yell at times like that, Tron would laugh and speed up. The bike never jolted, Sam never felt a bump: he felt safe. Tron was rather like Alan: quiet and not exactly entertaining in the sense as Flynn was, yet he was reliable and forthright. It was thrilling when he appeared in the Arena, and Sam also wished that he could see Tron in real combat. Something like that happened during one of their rides: they were halfway between the twin cities when they saw some flashing light at the end of a dark alley. Angry voices followed – Tron slowed down his bike.  
  
  “What is that?” asked Sam, pointing at the light.  
  
  “It is crossfire,” replied Tron. The light of his bike fell on a smaller crowd: programs of different kinds were engaged in a fight there – worker and admin Basics and ISOs. They were still aggressive when the bike stopped close to them; but they went silent when they recognized Tron.  
  
  “What’s going on here, folks?” asked the security program. They all began to yell at the same time, pointing at one another. Sam could not make much out of the screaming.  
  
  “And that’s why you want to beat each other up?” asked Tron again. Now all he answer he got was some embarrassed mumbling. The small crowd dissolved and the programs left the place. Tron walked back to Sam and his bike. He had not reached for his disc during the short quarrel; he had not even raised his voice.  
  
  “I was afraid you would have to fight,” admitted Sam later. By then he regretted his earlier wish to see Tron in combat. First the program did not reply and Sam did not see his face, because they were still on the road.  
  
  “I would have not gone there with you, had there been any real danger,” said Tron then. “And I would be a very sad security program if I would need to fight them every time when there is a harsher argument.”  
  
  “Why were they doing that?”  
  
  “Because they are different. We are programmed to be different, for the various tasks. If that would not be enough, there are the ISOs. They are not programmed for anything; they don’t have the urge to be useful for the system. That makes other programs suspicious against them. And everybody is afraid of the bugs.”  
  
  “What bugs are?” asked Sam. Until then he had not known that there was a side of the system that had never been shown to him, that he was brought on the Grid only when it was safe. It was strange: the first indication for him that the system was not just a playground, that his friends down here had more things to deal with than it had seemed to him before. Sam leaned his cheek against the armor on Tron’s back and was watching the white city before them.  
  
IV.  
  
  Earthquake, loud, screeching whizz, running programs everywhere: a slim tower collapsed and debris fell down onto the street. Sam froze where he was standing, in the middle of the Arena’s entrance. He looked up to see that faceless threat that surfaced out of nothing in the very center of the city – a hand fell on his shoulder before he could have set his eyes on the giant Grid bugs. In the next moment they were fleeing, way ahead of the other programs on the run.  
  
  “Wait,” gasped Sam. “What..?”  
  
   To his surprise Tron did not stop, just kept on dragging him away from the commotion. Sam looked back and saw a dozen programs being shattered under a pile of falling debris. He screamed. There was nobody he knew; his father was working with Clu in the office and he had come to see the games with Tron: still, the fact that the victims were unknown for him, did not make it easier. As soon as they got farther from the crowd, Tron launched his bike.  
  
  “What are you doing?” asked Sam once they were on the road and he was sitting on the vehicle behind Tron. A blast shook the road and Sam glanced back: on one side the wall of the Arena came down as the bug attack proceeded. He realized it suddenly that all the programs behind that had not run immediately, were now under the fallen blocks. He clenched his teeth and turned back. They were on the freeway, heading straight to the open portal.  
  
  “I can’t go without dad,” he said.  
  
  “You can, with your own disc,” replied Tron. That was the first time that he spoke since the beginning of the attack and his voice was grave. “You can wait for him on the other side. That’s what he wants.”  
  
  The road to the portal was long, even with travelling at maximum speed; Sam and his father usually took that trip by a smaller sailer. After leaving the habitable area, the road narrowed; once getting to the shore the strip continued as an overseas highway. The sounds and lights of the city fell behind them – everything seemed to be very calm, peaceful. They almost reached the check point that program could not cross, from where Sam should have walked to the portal on the last one mile, when Tron stopped and pulled out a pad. As it materialized, Sam saw that it was blinking like the signal light of a telephone. Tron was watching it intently for a few seconds, then he pushed a button, collapsed the pad and turned back to Sam.  
  
  “They contained the bugs and the situation is under control now,” he said. “We can go back.”  
  
  Sam was staring at him. Just then he understood that his friend was acting by a worst case scenario all along, that Tron, whose first thought would have been to rush to the aid of his fellow programs was going with a higher priority order.  
  
  “Fine,” he said blankly. “Let’s go.”  
  
  They returned to the city taking a different route, farther from the scene of the tragedy, still they saw the aftermath, the jets and carriers heading to the ruins of the Arena and the distressed programs on the streets. They went to Clu’s office: the building was almost empty as all the crew had left to take part in the rescue. From the large window Sam watched the city and saw when the vehicles returned later.  
  
  When the door opened up and his father entered with Clu, Sam had the strangest experience: for a few seconds he could not tell which one was Flynn and which one was his digital copy. Apart from having the same outfit and appearance, they were both anxious and they were yelling at each other just the same. They were arguing about the accident, about the system, about the ISOs. Sam could not exactly follow them – he just wanted them to stop. Tron was standing next to him silently. Finally one of the similar looking men went to Sam and picked him up, asked him if he was alright; then he could get rid of the spooky feeling. They left for the portal: they were very silent in the car on the way to the house.  
  
V.  
  
  In the following few days Sam’s life returned to the old routine of going to his classes, spending time with his grandparents and playing. He barely saw his father and he was declined to be taken to the Grid again.  
  
  “It’s not safe anymore,” Flynn replied every time when he asked. “We can talk about it once we took care of the system errors. Until then… I’m sorry.”  
  
  “How long will that take?”  
  
  “I don’t know, kiddo.”  
  
  “But… I have to go!” said Sam desperately. His father looked at him with a sad smile; as if he came to realize that they were sharing the same addiction. “Why don’t you ask Alan to help you?”  
  
  Flynn stood up and reached for his jacket: Sam was about to be left alone again.  
  
  “Good night, Sam,” his father said.  
  
  “Just this last time,” he exclaimed. “I don’t even know when I’m going to see them again. At least let me say good bye to them.”  
  
  It was a trick and they both knew that. Yet two days later in the evening they got into the car together. On the way to the Arcade they stopped by a dinner: as that was his last meal, later Sam would remember the taste of the orange juice, the fish fingers, the fries and the mayonnaise for very long.  
  
  Contrary to his expectations the Grid was quiet and calm: there were no signs of system errors. That cheered Sam up: his absence probably would not be that long after all.  
  
  “You rebuilt the Arena!” he said when they passed the new building. His father smiled; he seemed to be pleased. They drove to the office: in front of the entrance a single figure was standing. Sam glanced at his father uncertainly: he was hoping that he was not brought to the Grid just to say that good bye.  
  
  “Do you want to take a ride, Sam?” asked Tron with a cheerless smile. He just nodded.  
  
  “I’ll be in the office,” said Flynn. Sam did not reply; they were going to see each other soon.  
   
  The ride was quiet and the lights of the city somehow brighter than ever: how much he would miss it, thought Sam. He would wake up the next morning, get ready and go to the school: and at the same time this secret world would exist, its life would go on without him. The armor on Tron’s waist was solid and warm under his hands. Sam’s friends in his own world were of his own age; he could talk to them about toys, about the school, about a new movie – a whole lot of things that were unknown on the Grid, unknown for Tron. And Sam still thought of the two of them as friends.  
  
  A road closure emerged ahead. The bike slowed down as Tron prepared to make a turn. A few programs in the attire of workers closed the other side of the crossing as well.  
  
  “What happened?” asked Tron. He did not get a reply. Sam saw that Tron became suspicious and he assumed that the security program would have investigated the matter, had he been alone. Now Tron simply turned his bike and started toward the end of the street from where they had entered. Other light cycles approached from that direction: travelers that also were not informed about the closure, Sam assumed. The newly arrived bikes suddenly slowed down and closed the way out. They were trapped.  
  
  Tron turned his bike and began to circle on the street in the ring of the approaching programs. The fake clothes melted off of them, revealing their true appearance: they were all elite soldiers, with distinguishing, red circuitry. Sam looked up; around them the buildings darkened, the windows and ornaments that could have provided an escape route, disappeared. Where the road closure blocks had stood not long before now solid, black walls towered, creating a perfect trap.  
  
  “Stay behind me,” said Tron quietly. He stopped the bike and they got off. The light cycle collapsed into a handlebar. Sam pressed his back against the wall. The guards drew closer and closer: he saw at least a dozen of them, armed with batons and identity discs – the barely audible humming of the discs filled the space.  
  
  “What do you want?” asked Tron loudly. The soldiers stopped for a moment and then they continued to narrow the circle. Tron brought out his disc. Sam felt fear, for the first time now. Tron still did not step ahead: the number of the enemy was too overwhelming. Just when the first two guards reached him, he attacked: Sam could not even see the swooping discs, only the flashing lights: and the soldiers derezzed, falling to the ground in a shower of pixels. As Tron stepped ahead the rest of the guards were on top of him and Sam felt a pair of hands grabbing his shoulder. A glowing red disc strained against his neck.  
  
  “Program!” a guard yelled at Tron, who turned, looked at Sam and dropped his disc on the ground immediately. The soldiers twisted Tron’s arms behind his back and he was forced on his knees. Some of the guards were growling angrily at the losses of their unit; a baton swung upwards.  
  
  “No!” screamed Sam. The baton came down and Tron fell on the pavement unconsciously. Sam kicked as a guard picked him up – others of the merciless creatures took Tron’s motionless body and the two of them were taken to the large ground vehicle that was parked hidden behind the corner.  
  
VI.  
  
  Waiting. Sam had not known that it could be so strenuous: had he been home, he would have been hungry after such a long wait, he would have needed the bathroom, he would have fallen asleep. Here, in his large, yet almost empty cell all he could do was dozing off time to time. He was alone and without any idea about his surroundings: his cell was completely silent and had no windows. Nobody came to see him and he could not ask questions. He did not know where he was: from the trooper he had not seen anything of the streets and when the doors of the vehicle had opened up and he had been taken to this room, they had been underground. He lost count of time.  
  
  Sam was scared; not for himself, he was going to be saved, he was certain of that. Sooner or later his father, Clu or Tron would come to bring him out of this place. He was afraid for them – how long would it take to Flynn to find out what had happened and to come? If he had not come before, he probably had left the Grid and would return for him later; then Clu must be looking for Sam by now. Sam was walking in the room, sometimes bursting out and he began to yell, pounding against the solid walls. His biggest concern was Tron, whom he had seen to be taken captive, to be hurt, but lost out of sight after they had arrived this place.  
  
  Despite of the monotony, the lack of exhaustion, sometimes he managed to doze off. The short periods of sleep did not provide escape: it was not freshening and did not ease his worries.  
  
  Finally, after the longest wait, a door which had been unnoticeable for Sam until then, opened on the wall. A program entered: a woman in black attire with red circuitry. She wore her brown hair in a twist. Sam had not seen her before. There were two armed guards behind her on the corridor.  
  
  “Come with me, Sam,” she said. Her tone was rather kind, definitely not hostile. He stood up from the floor where he had been sitting, with his back to the wall.  
  
  “Where am I?” asked Sam. “Where is my father?”  
  
  “Come with me and you’ll get answer to your questions,” the program replied. It was not the answer Sam wanted, but he had to get out of the cell and he needed those answers. The corridor outside was long and empty. Sam wondered if there were other cells and if Tron was there as well. For now he kept silent: he waited for his chance to get his answers. They walked to the end of the corridor and got in an elevator.  
  
  The opening door revealed a large room; at first Sam had hard time recognizing it. It was spacious, with huge windows at the other side. There were guards standing at the entrance. A large panel with the map of the city hung on the wall on the right. There were two work terminals close to the entrance: after that three stairs led to the rear side of the room that was empty except for a large armchair. At the window, with his back to the room there was Clu. No mistake this time: there was nothing human in his appearance as he was standing there in his new combat suit. Sam was looking at Clu’s back icily: it had been a while since he had suspected that Clu had been behind the recent events – and the room was his old office.  
  
  The guards and his female companion stopped - Sam went upstairs. His eyes were on Clu and was about to burst out; then he glanced at the window and he froze. Where the outer districts of Tron City had been once now there was a battleground with ruined buildings and an unrecognizable mass of Grid material. The other sectors of the city, which were closer to downtown, were intact, just darker than usually and there were Recognizers and light jets circling above them. Beyond the enormous battlefield there was the ISO city, as the mirrored image of its twin settlement – with the peripheral districts shattered and ruined. The inner parts of Arjia City were also darker: the windows on the walls which were facing the battleground had been closed, deactivated. Sam ran to the window.  
  
  “What happened?” he cried out. “What did you do?”  
  
  “What did I do?” asked back Clu. Sam looked at him. The program’s face was emotionless, his voice slightly annoyed. Sam turned back to the window, examining the devastation. It took him a few minutes to recognize that an important feature was also missing from the picture: the portal was closed. He had never seen the system without that glowing beam of light. So his father was gone and it was only the matter of time for him to get out as well.  
  
  “He’s coming,” he whispered. “He’s coming.”  
  
  Clu looked down at him.  
  
  “What are you talking about?” he asked. Sam shrugged. He did not have anything to tell to a malfunctioning program that was soon going to be deleted anyway.  
  
  “If you meant your father,” said Clu, gesturing at the ISO city. “He is there, with his favorites.”  
  
  Sam was staring at the window: then he comprehended those words.  
  
  “Is he here?” he asked. “Dad is still here?”  
  
  Clu nodded. Sam faced the window again, this time with sheer horror. He did not know what would happen: this had not been an option. He felt like curling up in the corner – but he was a big boy now.  
  
  “Then I want to go there,” he demanded. Clu’s face was impossible to read.  
  
  “That’s not going to happen, User,” he said. Sam turned toward him. That was the first time that the administrator program called him like that and the word sounded like swearing.  
  
  “Why?” asked Sam. “I don’t even know what’s going on here.”  
  
  Clu glanced down at him. He was one of the few programs that understood the conception of a human lifecycle; who knew that Sam was not a fully functional User, simply with a different look. His expression was the mixture of pity and disdain.  
  
  “Every system has a tolerance level,” he said slowly. “Our system has been a stable one; none of the changes and updates caused any problem during the cycles. Despite of that endurance, it can not take the presence of the ISOs. We all know that, we have seen the consequences. But Flynn insists upon them, they are more important for him than his own creations.”  
  
  “So you decided to kill him?” asked Sam.  
  
  “To kill…?” Clu gave him a last incredulous glance and then he walked away. Sam knew that they had lost each other; and he did not want to argue anyway. He just wanted to go home.  
  
  “I’m not supposed to be here,” said Sam. Clu pointed at the window.  
  
  “That wasn’t supposed to happen either” he replied.  
  
  “Please…” asked Sam. Clu gestured toward the admin programs at the terminals and one of them hurried to bring him a data pad.  
  
  “I don’t have any business with you,” said Clu without looking at Sam. “But at this point you are the only reason why this city is not bombarded to the ground. That means, you are not going anywhere.”  
  
  “But…”  
  
  “We’ll be fine as long you don’t attempt to run. You’ll be provided with energy and with whatever you need to live. That’s it.”  
  
  Clu beckoned at the female program who was standing at the working terminals.  
  
  “Wait!” cried out Sam. “Where is Tron? Is he alive?”  
  
  “What?” asked Clu, his hand stopped in the air.  
  
  “Can we stay together? I don’t know anybody else here.”  
  
  The woman stopped next to Sam. It occurred to him that he had gotten in the middle of a nightmare: he already feared the answer.  
  
  “I’ll think about it,” said Clu and Sam was escorted out of the room.  
  
VII.  
  
  Sam’s new room was on the other side of the same building, its window overlooking the unharmed part of the city. There was a bed in the room – and nothing else. At first it made him glad; it was better than his first cell. He fell asleep, for the first time since he had been taken captive. Later a program came in and brought liquid energy for him. And then – nothing. Time passed slowly: Sam was watching the city from the window, but the street level was way below him and it was impossible to make out the details and the room was sound-proof. There could be a war taking place behind the corner; he would not notice anything of it. He was waiting: the fight would be over soon, he thought, and he would be released. Once reunited, his father would surely come up with a solution to open the portal.  
  
  He could only estimate the amount of time that had passed: after a few eventless days Sam realized that he might be held there for much longer than he had ever thought. The idea was unbearable – to be locked up alone, in a silent, empty room. Clu had said that he would be provided; but he was a program and their requirements of a livable life were much different.  
  
  “I…” said Sam, when the program brought him his drink on a plate. “I need… something.”  
  
  The program – female, blonde, with blank face and with white circuitry on her black suit -, glanced at him without any sign of comprehension and then she left the room. The boy lay down on the bed, leaving his cup untouched. He was sobbing until he fell asleep. In his dream he was in his school: even in his dream he was alone and the classroom was empty. He walked out of the room to the corridor, his steps quickened. He was relieved: he had had some nightmare about being trapped in a digital world and he could not escape. He could smell the disinfectant that they had used for cleaning the floor: it was a familiar smell; it belonged to his normal life. Sam was running along the hall in the direction of the gated entrance; he was making turns again and again and he was not able to find the right way. He stopped, desperately. He tried to hold onto the dream as it slipped away; he preferred that endless chase in that labyrinth to the truth – that he was still on the Grid, in his empty room. Sam was screaming as he woke up.  
  
  “Sam,” he heard as someone was calling his name. “Sam!”  
  
  His eyes opened and he saw Tron kneeling next to his bed. Sam jumped and threw his arms around the program’s neck.  
  
  “You’re alive!” he exclaimed. Tron returned the hug; that was the first time that somebody touched Sam since the takeover. “Are you alright?”  
  
  “I’m fine,” the program replied. He seemed weary and pale, yet otherwise unharmed. His disc was missing.  
  
  “What happened? How could this happen?” asked Sam.  
  
  “I… I should have…” Tron frowned.  
  
  “What?” asked Sam. Then he understood. “To fight them? They would have killed us! How did this happen? Clu talked about the ISOs, but… Did he tell you?”  
  
  “They were fighting because of them, you know that. But the rebellion… There were no signs of his plans, he didn’t tell anything. He couldn’t even.”  
  
  “Why? Why do you say that?”  
  
  “Because you knew about this place. If he wanted to capture you both, as he wanted, he had to make sure that it seemed to be safe enough for your dad to bring you here again.”  
  
  “He said dad was out there,” said Sam excitedly. “So he did escape! And they started to fight! Once the war is over…”  
  
  The lost and desperate look on Tron’s face made him stop.  
  
  “War?” the program asked. Sam told him about his conversation with Clu; about the view of the ruined cities. Tron was distressed.  
  
  “You didn’t know that,” said Sam. He just remembered the empty port on the program’s back. “You’re locked up just the same.”  
  
  Tron looked back at him.  
  
  “I was sent to find out how they could make it easier for you,” he said. “I don’t have any information about what happened out there since Clu took over.”  
  
  His expression was cryptic: Sam knew that he was telling the truth, but he also felt that he was hiding something – from Sam, from their conversation to be recorded on his disc. Sam composed himself.  
  
  “I need something to do, while I am here,” he said slowly. “I can’t sit here alone, doing nothing. I can’t. I need company and I need something to keep me busy. Can I do something that would help to finish this thing quickly? Or can I just get a book from the library?”  
  
  The door opened: there were two guards outside, waiting.  
  
  “Will you come back?” asked Sam.  
  
  “I will try,” the program replied quietly. He stood up and left without looking back at the boy.  
  
VIII.  
  
  The game field was dim, mid-sized. It was bordered by tall buildings; above the top a small part of the cloudy sky was visible. Floating aircrafts crossed it time to time, the roar of thunder: the echo of explosions came from the distance. Sam walked to a lit up spot and stopped, he brought out a ball and flung it up a few times, testing. He held a racket in his other hand: the target spots began to sparkle on the smooth ground.  
  
  “Ready?” he asked. On the other side of the field Tron turned and waved at Sam. In his dark suit he was barely visible, only his glowing blue circuits gave him away. Sam popped the ball up and hit it with the racket – the ball shot out toward the first target spot. It was in the second cycle of the war.  
  
  After his conversation with Tron Sam was given access to the library and the opportunity to spend more time out of his room. Eagerly, he waited, for the fight to be over and for his father to come – Sam saw nothing of the fight, nothing of the devastation, but he talked to programs and overheard other conversations as well. He found out that the same time when the guards had come for him and Tron, Clu and his minions had attempted to capture Flynn in the administration building. A long fight had evolved between the rebellious programs and between Flynn and the ones that had rushed to his aid: until Sam learnt this, he had thought that the new design of Clu’s office had been done for no apparent reason. When Flynn had failed to locate Sam, he had made a run for the portal – but the overseas highway had been destroyed by then and Recognizers flooded the sky, bringing down every unidentified aircraft. The portal had closed and Flynn had retreated to Arjia City, followed by some of the Basics that had still believed in him. There they had prepared to the attack that had come soon – and the system had been in a grim war before most of the residents had learnt anything about the latest events.  
  
  The ball hit the second target spot, and was now aimed at Tron. He caught it easily and flung it back, with the same precision as he had done once in the Arena. Sam’s request had given him relative freedom and that was more than nothing – it was better than what had happened to many of the uncooperative programs in the city.  
  
  “It doesn’t hurt,” said Quinn once, when they were talking in the library. Sam was sitting at a reading table, watching a Christmas movie. Tron was standing at a window and was looking at the sky: this side of the building faced the intact part of the city. The movie was boring and Sam had seen it before, so he was talking to Tron, making a remark here and there, right before about the red programs in the other row. The library was fairly busy, but this row was theirs; two guards were standing at the end of the shelves and Quinn was browsing on her data pad as she stood there, leant to a large drawer. She was the program who had escorted Sam to Clu’s office after the coup. “Being rectified, it doesn’t hurt. They just fall asleep and when they wake up, they are… different.”  
  
  Sam glanced at her. By then he knew her quite well and liked her company contrary his initial reluctance. Quinn had not been rectified: she was one of Clu’s first followers, the ones that had truly believed in Clu’s vision. Despite of that she was not hateful or even impolite with Sam and the User-believers. Tron lightly shuddered at her words; he did not turn away from the window.  
  
  “It doesn’t make it right,” said Sam. “It’s against their will.”  
  
  “Yes,” replied Quinn. “But their own will is harmful for the system. And that makes it righteous.”  
  
  Sam stopped the movie: this talk was far more interesting for him.  
  
  “How is that?” he asked. Quinn put down her pad too.  
  
  “Changing a few programs is rather logical than to let the system collapse because of their wrong beliefs.”  
  
  “What was their mistake?”  
  
  “To insist that Users would save us from the ISO plague and the errors that followed,” replied Quinn. Sam remained silent; he had no answer for that. “Now they know that they were wrong. It’s them, who live in a safe place, while the ISO city is falling apart under the Grid bug attacks. We are not starving as they do, because of the senseless multiplying of the ISOs, because the Creator failed to delete or extract them from the system. That’s the kind of responsibility that a leader must take.”  
  
  “To kill a few for the sake of the rest?” asked Sam. Tron turned toward them, his arms folded.  
  
  “Yes, Sam,” replied Quinn. Sam looked at Tron, who did not offer a comment.  
  
  “He should have,” the boy said, “he should have given it up. He should have given everything to Clu, if that’s what he wanted, so we could just go home.”  
  
  “But he did,” said Quinn. “At the beginning and since then.”  
  
  “Is that true?” asked Sam. He looked at Tron. “Is that true?”  
  
  “That’s what programs say,” replied Tron.  
  
  “Then why are we still here?” asked the boy. “If he is willing to give the system to Clu? Why is there no arrangement?”  
  
  “Because he doesn’t mean it,” said Tron. Quinn nodded; Sam found it odd how easily they agreed about matters of logic despite of being enemies. “Because he would make the deal here and then he would delete Clu in the moment he gets out. And Clu is not a fool.”  
  
  “How does Clu know about dad’s intentions?”  
  
  “Because they are the same,” said Tron.  
  
  “No, they are not!” exclaimed Sam. The programs looked at him in silence. “Are they?”  
  
  “That’s why the war can never end,” said Quinn. “Because they always know what the other would do next. We could destroy them all, but we don’t do it, because it has never been the plan, to kill our fellow programs and the Creator. And they can not destroy us, because you are here.”  
  
  “Every war ends at one point,” said Sam hesitantly. “When dad or I die.”  
  
  “Or when Flynn makes the arrangement and he means it,” said Tron.  
  
  Sam caught the ball and threw it again. Two cycles: he would have been nine years old in his world now. He was aware of the change though it did not alter his appearance: only a few days must have passed in the real world since the coup. They were surely terrified by now, his Grandparents, their friends, the Bradleys. It was unbelievable that his father had never left any note or message that could be found in case of emergency – just as Sam became older, he started to ponder about these things.  
   
  His life was rather eventless: he spent his time in his room, in the library and on the game field. The periods of sleep and exercise gave a certain rhythm; it was comforting, especially since he lived surrounded by programs that did not sleep. At the beginning he was offered to be taught: most obviously there were no schools on the Grid and that plan was meant just for him. He refused it right away; first, because it was Clu’s offer and Sam hated him beyond all measure. On the other hand, he wanted to avoid becoming useful for Clu’s regime in any way – and at last, reading and watching television shows was much better fun than to study.  
  
  “What do you think about that?” Sam asked Tron about the idea. The program remained silent as he was kneeling next to the window. The boy knew that he heard the question and now he was deliberating.  
  
  “I think,” Tron said slowly, “that you should absolutely take advantage of his offer. You should not waste the time that you spend here.”  
  
  “He will try to use me against dad,” Sam objected. “He can not create programs, I know. Dad told me.”  
  
  Tron turned and looked at the boy, waiting.  
  
  “But I am a User, I can,” Sam continued. “And he would use that against dad and his allies.”  
  
  The program was thinking again.  
  
  “You have the potential to become a User,” he said. “But for now you are very far from that; it would take long time. It is your own time, what you are wasting if you don’t go with this offer. He would try to use your capabilities, no doubts about that, but by then you will have the actual knowledge and insight to make your own decisions.”  
  
  Sam was staring at him. He should have expected the answer: always straightforward, always honest, even when it hurt – that was his guardian. But Tron was a program and Sam decided that he knew it better and he refused Clu’s offer. That was the last time he saw the administrator program.  
  
  The ball returned to Sam once more. He caught it: the target lights went out and they walked back to the building. One more day ended on the Grid.  
  
IX.  
  
   Every morning was the same: the room was dark, illuminated by the city lights that came in through the large window. The lamps turned on when he moved in the bed and stretched. He slept in his pants and t-shirt; there was no need of changing, as his clothes never got creased or worn. Then the same program came and served his drink, without saying a word, usually without even looking at Sam. It was that blonde female who had come on the first day: she was silent and her face blank. Sam believed that she must have been the dumbest creature ever – after so many cycles he did not even know her name.  
  
  In the morning he was reading: in the beginning he preferred comics and junior novels, then, as time passed he began to pick up larger volumes. There were thousand and thousand books and films digitized in the city library and that abundance was overwhelming, it made his captivity feel like a long vacation. With all the lazy amusement the best part of his day was the training on the small field; other than that he never stepped out of the stronghold. They were playing, always the same simple ballgame. It was nothing like the competition Sam had seen in the Arena long before, yet the delight was obvious on Tron’s face as well, every time they walked out to the field. Under the dark sky they heard the distant sound of jets and other vehicles, and sometimes, when the traffic above was not that busy, the noises of the street reached them, talking, music and the buzz of a passing bike. For the tall walls they could not see anything of that life in the city, but it was still something. At those times Tron seemed to be feverish, contrary to his usual reserved, downcast expression. That was the most Sam experienced of the war: he could not care less about the whole business. As far he was concerned he just had to keep himself busy and to wait to be rescued.  
  
  He spent the rest of the day in and out the library and his own room, with movies, books, chatting with programs and playing. Most of the time it did not even feel like imprisonment: there were guards around him in the library and other public places, but their presence did not make any difference for Sam and after a while he simply forgot about them. The other programs were either neutral or friendly with him, especially after a few cycles, as the war advanced and Clu’s forces slowly surmounted; there was a general cheerfulness all over the place.  
  
  Sam did not see Clu after he had refused his offer. He began to forget the initial terror he had felt about his imprisonment, the war and his separation from his father; his world narrowed to the survival and the entertainment he could get. He stopped remembering his old life at home, his friends and family; it was pointless, something that would have just hurt him. The programs he spent most of his time, Tron and Quinn put their efforts to make him feel comfortable with the situation – even though Tron’s spirit paled as he became more and more disconcerted in the captivity.  
  
  The door opened and the blonde program entered. She walked to the nightstand next to Sam’s bed and put down the plate with the cup. She turned and left, without uttering a word and Sam stayed silent too – he never talked to her, never said a thank you. He sat up and reached for the cup. There had been food in his own world that had been dull, nothing special, like the porridge for breakfast, yet he had not gotten fed up with them. The liquid energy was like that too; rather bland, and still tasty. Just when Sam was about to put down the cup he noticed the small piece of paper on the plate. It looked like a napkin, but there were no napkins on the Grid, or even pieces of paper floating around. He picked it up and examined it. His heart gave a leap: he had been waiting for so long to be saved – and the time finally came.  
  
  He had the hardest time behaving, from holding back himself from jumping around in his room until the training session. Tron must have noticed his excitement and looked at the boy inquisitively. Sam slipped the note in the program’s hand as they were walking to the field. Tron looked at the note and then back to Sam, confused.  
  
  “What is this?” he asked.  
  
  “A message from dad,” Sam said, equally confused. “It’s dad’s handwriting.”  
  
  Seeing that Tron did not understand the word, he explained.  
  
  Tron’s expression changed. The sad look that had been engraved on his face in the last few cycles, suddenly disappeared. He was watchful and very much intent now.  
  
  “I got it from…” started Sam.  
  
  “Don’t give me that information,” Tron interrupted promptly.  
  
  “We’ll be in his camp by tonight!” he whispered jubilantly. They reached the door that led to the playing field. The door opened up automatically and Sam stepped ahead; then he felt Tron’s hand on his shoulder. He looked up.  
  
  “Let’s go,” said Tron quietly. This section of the building was scarcely guarded: there were only the separate playing fields and a few short, closed corridors. Two guards would come for them at the end of the training; but they had time until then.  
  
  They ran in silence. Sometimes Tron stopped at a corner, waiting for a guard to pass. Sam came to realize that the program knew their exact schedule, that the cycles of apparent inactivity had not pass without avail. They reached the small room unnoticed; the door, as it had been promised in the message was open. They entered and Tron closed the door behind them.  
  
  “Which one is that?” asked Sam excitedly, looking at the smooth cover panels of the service channels. One of those panels was supposed to be open and the alarm inside deactivated: their path out of the building, which had been their prison during the previous four cycles. On the other side programs waited for them to slip them through the war zone, to Arjia City.  
  
  One of the panels opened under Tron’s light touch. The program peeked inside, then reached in and patted the walls of the tunnel. No alarm sounded, everything remained calm and casual, yet Sam stared at the tunnel with growing terror.  
  
  “No,” he breathed. Tron bent down to pick him up and help him in the tunnel: the entrance gap was high, it would have been hard, if not impossible for Sam to get in on his own. As the program lifted him, the boy saw the tunnel from closer and his fears were confirmed. “This is too small.”  
  
  “You can make it,” whispered Tron. “It’s descending slightly, and you’ll have help on the other side.”  
  
  “I can make it,” replied Sam quietly, “but how will you get through here?”  
  
  “It’s alright,” said Tron after a moment of silence and began to tug the boy in the tunnel.  
  
  “I’m not going,” said Sam, his voice mildly raised. “Put me down.”  
  
  “What?”  
  
  “You’ll die if I go.”  
  
  “Everything will be fine,” replied Tron, pushing the boy in the tunnel. Sam wrapped his arms around the program, his nails sank in the armor.  
  
  “Clu will know that you helped,” he insisted. “Even if you survive the punishment, you’ll die when dad has them bombard this place. And he will.”  
  
  “He has to,” whispered Tron in Sam’s ear. “All the communication towers are under Clu’s control. Flynn will need those to send a signal out.”  
  
  “I’m not going then,” repeated Sam. It was surreal, standing there, holding onto each other and whispering into the other one’s ear. “Put me down.”  
  
  “Sam, listen. I can’t make it through this tunnel. Even if I could, he has my disc. This conversation is being recorded. Soon they’ll notice our absence and Clu will be notified. If I ran with you, they would catch us, because they know what I know. You have to go now. I’ll make it back to the field and I will distract them long enough.”  
  
  It was so simple: he got it so quickly that he was never meant to be saved.  
  
  “I will scream, Tron,” whispered Sam. The program stopped, processing the statement.  
  
  “There might not be an opportunity like this again,” he said.  
  
  “I know and I made my decision. I command you to put me down.”  
  
  Tron let him down slowly. They were facing each other, staring as if they just met for the first time. As the tension eased they carefully exited the room and hurried their way back to the playing field. They got there before the guards, but they did not touch the rackets nor they talked – all had been said by then.  
  
X.  
  
  Next morning Sam woke up from a restless sleep. He felt worn and tired; fearing the consequences of the previous day’s events.  
  
  “Will he find out?” he asked Tron the day before. “Will Clu learn about it?”  
  
  “I don’t know, Sam,” replied Tron doubtingly. He had been upset, almost devastated after their return and Sam had kept on thinking about the programs that had been waiting for him outside, about his father, who had been waiting for him. He could have been with him, probably at home by now, in his own bed.  
  
  The lights turned on as they always did and the door opened. This time it was not the blonde program, but Quinn. Her face was mournful, strangely apologizing.  
  
  “He knows,” said Sam. After the sleepless night it was almost calming to make the conclusion. Quinn remained silent. He rose and put on his jacket and his shoes.  
  
  The corridors were empty: they walked toward the playing fields. The boy was shaking; he could not imagine the retribution that would follow, but Quinn’s silence and the sight of the deserted corridors were terrifying for him.  
  
  “Will I die today?” he asked. Quinn stopped and glanced down at him. She bent over and set Sam’s collar with a move that she probably had seen in one of Sam’s family movies.  
  
  “You have to be strong now,” she said. The field outside was larger than the one where Sam and Tron used to practice. The door opened to a small terrace, from where a few stairs led to the field below. Clu and a few programs with red circuitry were standing outside. The reds around Clu seemed to be high-ranked programs. Clu turned and looked at Sam. They had not seen one another since two cycles.  
  
  “There are six million programs living in this city,” said Clu. “In safety, thanks to our army and your presence.”  
  
  “I came back,” whispered Sam. He was shaking from the fear. They would not kill him, he told himself; that would be senseless. But, but… there was something utterly terrifying in the silence of the programs, in the dimness of the empty field down under. Clu nodded toward the guard that was standing at the bottom of the stairs.  
   
  The gate opened up at the end of the playing field and four Black Guards emerged. Sam had not seen any of these fearsome creatures since his capture. The soldiers dragged in two programs: the blonde maid and Tron. They appeared to be brutally beaten, their hands were tied back.  
  
  “I came back!” screamed Sam. He attempted to run downstairs, but Quinn grabbed his shoulder and held him back. The boy looked at her with hatred, just to see the program devastated as well. He turned back to Clu: the administrator program watched his rampage listlessly.  
  
  “I won’t hurt you,” said Clu. “Not that you deserve forgiveness – you are worthless; except for your life, which does have a value. But I will show you something that will make you think twice next time, when you plan to run.”  
  
  On the field the prisoners were thrown on their knees. One of the guards pulled out a baton and activated it: a glowing, red blade formed. The soldier walked to the kneeling programs. The female started shaking violently; energy trickled down on her face from an open wound on her forehead. Tron was sitting on his heels calmly, his eyes closed.  
  
  “I came back! I came back!” Sam could not stop screaming now. The guard stepped behind the blonde female and raised the katana. She looked up and her lips opened as if for a yelp; then she did not cry out. The tip of the sword plunged in her nape deeply and the program derezzed silently, the same way as she had lived. Sam hid his face in Quinn’s military frock.  
  
  The guards circled around Tron by the time Sam looked up. The boy felt strangely calm. Clu was watching him expectantly. The guards on the field were waiting for the sign. Sam cleared his throat and pointed at Tron.  
  
  “That’s why I came back,” he said in a raspy voice. “If you kill him, there won’t be anything to stop me, when the opportunity comes. And it will come, if not now, then in the next cycle or after. And that will be the last day of your reign.”  
  
  “Don’t threaten me, User,” said Clu. “I need you alive, but you can live in a box too, is that what you want?”  
  
  “I want you to leave him alone!” wailed Sam. The programs around them listened to the argument with blank faces, the guards on the field waited. “Please… You won’t regret it. I will work for you!”  
  
  “What?” asked Clu.  
  
  “I can write programs for you,” said Sam. Clu started toward him, irritably.  
  
  “No, you can’t,” he snarled. “You could, for sure, but you don’t have the knowledge. You’ve been offered, but you refused it. You’re spending your time with doing nothing, cycle to cycle, having no idea what goes on around you. You’re worse than an ISO, because you are a User and you do have a choice – and you decided to be worthless.”  
  
  “I was wrong,” said Sam, his face was burning from the shame. “I will learn, and I will learn quickly.”  
  
  “Sure,” replied Clu doubtingly.  
  
  “I’ll study!” screamed Sam. The program turned away from him and simply walked out of the terrace, the rest followed him. There must have been a sign that Sam did not catch, because the katana collapsed into a baton in the guard’s hand. The soldiers retracted and Sam ran downstairs.  
  
XI.  
  
_When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.  
  
Corinthians 13:11_  
  
  The candlelight drew shadows on the walls and the neon lights of the city were shut out by the curtains that covered the window. A large, wooden wardrobe stood next to the wall and a desk with a chair. A dark, soft carpet was lying in the middle of the room with a large pillow.  On a shelf above the desk there were books: the Elements from Euclid, the Arithmetica Universalis, a poetry collection from Robert Frost and a few more. An antique Grandfather Clock was standing in the corner: the pendulum was woven to the right and frozen in the air: that clock was counting the time in the real world. Had someone been watching it for long, that would have noticed the movements of the pendulum, but it would have been a tiresome duty.  
  
  On the desk there was a piece of work: Sam had been working on it since long and he was about to finish it. It was a chute; it had taken him a while to come up with the conception – he had known what he had wanted, but he had had to abstract. He had remembered the mechanism of the parachutes from the world that had not been his anymore, the aerodynamics; but there was no air on the Grid. Once the idea had occurred to him, it had been fairly easy to create the chute itself. He was hiding it: the only piece of his efforts during the cycles that he withheld from Clu – Sam needed it for his escape from Tron City.  
  
  He leant back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He expected to make it rather easily to the outer walls of the building: he was not closely monitored anymore. After the execution he really felt like he was in a prison; for long he was not allowed to leave his room. He missed it: not the library, he could ask for any books or recordings from there, but the training sessions – not that he could have used the admission, as the previous events had left Tron disabled for long microcycles. It was though for Sam, the stress and to grow up to the expectations as quickly as it was possible. He did not know how to begin, how to go on living; he felt like his skull was filled with cotton wool. Then Quinn took him to the library where she began to question the boy about his earlier studies. Soon they put together a pile of textbooks and tapes. When she came back the day after, she knew _everything_ of those books. The downloaded information did not turn her to one of Sam’s teachers, it seemingly did not alter her personality; she remained the same program, merely with the knowledge of a school staff.  
  
  “Wow,” said Sam, “can we do the same for me? Can you just put everything on my disc?”  
  
  “Some of it, probably,” replied Quinn. “The encyclopedic part.”  
  
  “But that is everything.”  
  
  “No, Sam,” the program said with deep concentration on her face – she was still sorting the load of information. “Knowledge is not a stack of data you sit on, but you, processing and using it. You are not a program, you have to learn it.”  
  
  “I’ve never thought that being a User would be actually a disadvantage once,” contemplated Sam. And so they started. Sam thought it would be boring and they would both get frustrated – but it turned out to be fun. They sat on the floor, Quinn with a pad and Sam with a tray on stands, a data pad and a touch pen. Quinn insisted that Sam would practice handwriting and drawing by hand – it was one of the things that the boy could not really comprehend first and for what he was very grateful later. In the first half of his day they were studying in his room: Mathematics and Physics at the first place, and also Art and Literature.  
  
  “I don’t understand,” said Sam. “Why do you teach me things that I don’t need for the programming? Isn’t that a waste of time for you?”  
  
  Quinn was thinking: there was a pondering expression on her face that Sam saw often since they had begun the lectures.  
  
  “They hang together,” replied Quinn finally. “For Users, in a way that I can not explain, not exactly.”  
  
  In the afternoon Sam spent time in the library, with other programs, playing Grid-chess. To his frustration he had to realize that he could not defeat any of them, that he was missing the patience and the analytical thinking. One time he jumped to his feet, grabbed the board and threw it to the floor: the chessboard shattered to pieces. The program he had been playing with was staring at him, so did the others that had been watching the game. Then they started to laugh, one of them picked up the pieces and fixed the board quickly, ready for the next round. They always came, curiously and eagerly to play: in the beginning Sam was surprised by their lack of hatred, by their simplicity.  
  
  “How is it possible,” he asked, “that they don’t hate me? With all the war and everything?”  
  
  They were in his room. He was putting away his tray at the end of a session. Quinn was kneeling a few feet away from him and Tron was sitting at the window, cross-legged, probably far away, slipped in his usual meditation.  
  
  “Why would they?” replied Quinn. “You are not dangerous for them. And even though we don’t need our Creator, who abandoned us, you still remind them of the great days of the Grid, when we were whole.”  
  
  “Is that why you do this for me?” asked Sam. Again there was that deliberating, oddly human look on her face and she glanced at the window.  
  
  “Partly, yes,” she said. “And I’m well requited by my Master.”  
  
  Time passed rather quickly. Gaining all the knowledge was one thing – the real meaning of his own evolvement occurred to Sam two cycles later. He would have been fourteen in his own world: he would have gone to high school, would have had a hobby, he probably would have had a girlfriend by then. Despite of the time that had passed, despite of the changes he had gone through, his look, his body had not changed, there were no hormones to bother him at all. First he forced out a draw at the chessboard and then he won. Then he began the programming: he furnished his room and created a few new appliances. He was allowed to do that – he was strictly prohibited to create weapons or a baton, yet everything else was encouraged. With a baton Tron could have busted both of them out of the city, missing disc or not. It was only a dream Sam sometimes indulged in; after the execution Tron had changed, he was not the same anymore. After his recovery they resumed their sessions on the playing field, but Tron was different now; his adventurous spirit was gone and he barely looked Sam in the eyes, as if there was a secret or he was ashamed of something.  
  
  The candles were his test, though he did not know that. Sam designed them out of fascination and curiosity: he wanted to see if that phenomenon of light, warmth and the shadows they made was possible to recreate on the Grid. The programs’ reactions towered above his greatest expectations: Tron could not keep his eyes off of the yellow light – Quinn let out a stunned yelp and left the room in a hurry.    
  
  “My Master wants to see your latest work,” she said the next morning. Sam shrugged.  
  
  “Sure, you can take it,” he replied, pretending that he did not care. He did care: it was time and he was aware of that. He had gone far with the programming and he saw the system through a programmer’s eyes now – still, he had not yet created working, living programs. Sam has been learning from books and from Quinn, who had all the knowledge, but no experience; and she was not a programmer anyway. Not just that he needed the advice, but he also had some fears about the creation: it had been seven cycles since he was living in the system, and programs were the people that surrounded him - not playthings.  
  
  He was summoned to the Throne Room two days later. The room was the same as it had been for the last time, except for a table that had been placed in the middle of the rear section; on the table there were Sam’s candles and next to it there stood two chairs. Clu was walking in with large steps just as Sam arrived and he gestured toward the chairs.  
  
XII.  
  
  There was a long ceasefire between the fighting parties after the newly written programs appeared in the city. The new programs were not combatants, they did not face the enemy directly, but there were enough spies around. Everybody recognized the significance of the new inhabitants; and Sam knew that his father would get the message as well.  
  
  “I don’t want soldiers,” said Clu, when the time came.  
  
  “No?” asked Sam. He was relieved; he had been concerned about the idea, creating combatant programs that would march against Flynn and the ISOs.  
  
  “Enough of them had been repurposed to soldiers,” replied Clu. “Give me workers and architects.”  
  
  “I thought you would ask for more sentries.”  
  
  “In case it didn’t occur to you, I won this war already. At high price though: we have lost many. The capacity of the system allows much more than we have – so give us programs that would share the Grid with us.”  
  
  Sam found it hard, at first, to recognize the administrator program as anything else than the monster as he had considered Clu. Yes, he was a monster, who stood between Sam and his father, between them and their own world – and he was the leader of the city, who never let down his dependents. Upon his order the guards slaughtered spies and traitors of the city with the greatest cruelty; in exchange for that outmost rigor the city was blossoming, while the ISO settlement beyond the battlefield was not more than a pile of debris with scattered lights.  
  
  “Why aren’t there peace talks?” asked Sam one day, looking at the view. Clu rose and joined him at the window. His attitude had changed toward Sam after the boy had proven himself and then even more when the first new programs had been created. “He doesn’t have anything, why doesn’t he surrender?”  
  
  “Well, he doesn’t have anything,” said Clu. “But at the same time he has everything.”  
  
  Sam nodded.  
  
  “Once he is out of the system,” he said. “He can do anything.”  
  
  Sam remembered the conversation with Quinn: that Clu would not release them, until he felt reassured. That he would always know if Flynn really meant his promise.  
  
  “Let me go and talk to him,” said Sam suddenly. “He will not understand, he won’t get it otherwise.”  
  
  “They derezzed everyone in the last delegation I sent there, before they could meet Flynn,” said Clu casually.  
  
  “I could make it there.”  
  
  “Maybe. And he would destroy us right away.”  
  
  “They don’t even have the weaponry anymore,” objected Sam.  
  
  “They do have. Even if they didn’t, he can do it, with his User powers. And once we are gone, you two can make contact with your world through the Input/Output towers. And then, when another User enters the system, all of you could leave. I’m not taking this risk.”  
  
  “Then the war will never end,” said Sam despondently.  
  
  “Oh, it will. Soon the sea will stop spreading the ISO contagion. I looked after that. They will be desperate, as they never cared for anything else other than their filthy kind. They will attack and they will be gone - and so Flynn will be left alone with his remaining followers, realizing that they have fought for nothing.”  
  
  Sam walked back to his room glumly. He kept on pondering, thinking, both from his own point of view and from a program’s perspective. It was such a calculable path that had led here, such a miserable medley of the logics of the machine and the passion of the living and… He stopped, almost stumbled; he pressed his palms against his stomach – he felt sick as if he had eaten decayed food.    
  
  “You are well requited by your master,” he whispered. He felt the tears of anger burning his eyes.  
  
  Slowly he walked back to his room. With the curtains drawn and with the furniture it looked like a room in the User world. Tron was sitting on the carpet in his usual position, eyes closed. Sam walked there and sat down the same way, with his legs crossed, facing the program. He looked at his friend. After so many years around Tron, Sam forgot Alan Bradley’s look; when the thought about his father’s friend it was always this ageless face before his eyes.  
  
  Tron looked up. He was still, expressionless.  
  
  “A program’s life is about following directions,” said Sam. “I used to believe that it was only Clu, who did that so implacably on his quest to create the perfect system. To execute the order at any price.”  
  
  The program did not react; just a barely noticeable flash in his eyes gave him away.  
  
  “I should have known, that you have been doing the same. Protecting my life and my well-being at any price.”  
  
  Tron was glaring at him for a few seconds, then he shook his head curtly and closed his eyes.  He was slipping back in his meditation already. Sam reached there and touched his wrist; he pressed their palms together. The program glanced up curiously.  
  
  “I look the same like I did when I got trapped here,” said Sam. “But I would be almost sixteen, had I lived in my own world. That means my hands would be the same or bigger than yours. A hundred cycles should pass on the Grid to make any change in the way I look, and even then I would only be a slightly bigger kid. But I would be a hundred years old inside and Users don’t live that long. That means my soul would be very old by then, it probably wouldn’t even be a human’s soul anymore.”  
  
  He stopped and looked at Tron to see if he understood. The program was processing and then he nodded slowly.  
  
  “I should have listened to you, when he made his offer for the first time,” said Sam.  
  
  “You did what you felt was right,” replied Tron. “You have every right to make your own decisions or to change your mind later.”  
  
  “But at what price?” asked Sam bitterly. “That maid… she knew that she would not get away, didn’t she? She was dead from the moment she gave me that message. She knew that and still she did it. And I didn’t even know her name. I needed guidance, I needed to be taught; not to be smarter and not be in level with Clu, but in order to give me self-control and comprehension. Without that today I would be a dumb puppet in Clu’s hand and he would play me off against dad. But I didn’t realize that everything had a price to pay. I didn’t know that you would be the price.”  
  
  There was a long silence. The boy was staring at the patterns of the carpet. He was actually surprised that he had had the courage to utter that loudly. No response came and Sam glanced up. He did not see anger on the program’s face as he feared; just the usual peaceful expression.  
  
  “You’ve been using your time and resources wisely,” said Tron finally. “And you need to look ahead, not behind you.”  
  
  “But…”  
  
  “This doesn’t lessen the value of her work with you. You might have hard time believing that now, but Quinn is not evil. I would very easily choose somebody with her qualities. I only wish they had given me…” he fell silent and looked away.  
  
  “A choice,” finished Sam. “I will stop this.”  
  
  “And you give up everything you’ve been working for?”  
  
  “What?” asked Sam, irritated. He was furious and he held onto his anger.  
  
  “What you will do is to sit down with her and learn, the same way you’ve been doing it. And to sit down with Clu, when he teaches you. And listen. So when the opportunity comes, you will be ready.”  
  
  “Ready for what?” yelled Sam angrily.  
  
  “To bring peace to the Grid,” replied Tron simply. “So the suffering and sacrifice would not be meaningless.”  
  
  The boy buried his face in his hands. He thought he would not be able to rise and go on, to keep up the appearance. But he did; only with a newly acquired, wild instinct to break out, to run.  
  
XIII.  
  
  The opportunity came almost one cycle later. By then he was ready: he had his chute in his room and there was a baton hidden and waiting for him outside the walls. Sam had reprogrammed a servant to get that baton, when the program had been off duty and to hide it at a safe place, close to the building. According to the reprogramming the servant had forgotten the task once he had completed it.  
  
  First it was miserable to wait for his chance. It was hard to hear about the poisoning of the sea, about the advancement of Clu’s forces. The Reds could have shattered the enemy, and that idea was horrendous – but so was this slow devastation. It was tough to see the same signs that he had seen before, and understand them. In his imagination he derezzed Clu and Quinn a thousand times, barely able to hold back and not to start yelling at them. Then it became a game: to smile and be respectful, not to give away himself.  
  
  Sam kept his plans in secret, especially from Tron, for the program’s own sake. Many times he had the impression that despite his efforts Tron knew everything: and that amused expression on the program’s face when Sam was pretending, made the waiting easier, almost like a game.  
  
  And then he ran, upstairs to the top of the building. He knew that the opportunity was coming, saw the security breach coming, not with his eyes but through calculations, through the occurrence percentage of the system errors. Sam had his chute hidden under his jacket and he was waiting behind his door for the guards to leave their posts. The next shift was on the way, but still a few yards away, when the first guards left and Sam slipped out to the corridor.  
  
  He was running through the empty halls and corridors, avoiding the programs and checkpoints. He heard the silent alarms turning on and sensed the guards that started chasing him. Usually he did not mind his physical appearance, but now he would have been happy to have longer legs. Yet he made it: he got to the roof ahead of the programs. Sam climbed on the edge and took off his jacket. The chute looked like a black sweater of some heavy material on his upper body.  
  
  He could have jumped right away; then the sight of the city made him stop. It was beautiful with its lights and sounds. The outskirts had been rebuilt and the war zone narrowed: and then there were the remains of Arjia City, barely more than a tent camp now.  
  
  “Hey, dad,” he whispered. “How are you doing?”  
  
  “Where are you going run to now?” the guard that got the closest to him, yelled.  
  
  “Hey, you don’t want to do that,” the boy replied. It was hard to hide his grin. He stepped on the very edge of the roof, just above the giant, glowing CLU sign, and turned back to the arriving guards and sentries. Their faces were hidden, but their posture unveiled their fear of the inevitable punishment that would follow, had they lost Sam – they had to see that the boy did not have a baton to rezz a jet or any appliance that would save him if he fell.  
  
  “Why?” asked the first guard. Sam did not reply. In the crucial situation the guard risked a statement that would have been forbidden at other times. “This is your father’s system!”  
  
  That somehow hit Sam. The smile melted off of his face.  
  
  “Not anymore,” he said, spread his arms and jumped down from the roof. He heard the desperate cries of the programs and he screamed too: after so many cycles of imprisonment the sensation of the free fall nearly knocked him out. He activated the chute and prayed for it to work; and the blue dragonfly wings turned on, slowing down his fall.  
  
  “Wuhuhu!” he yelled cheerfully. The floors of the administration building passed one by one and the street with its lights came closer and closer. His feet touched the ground below almost lightly. He quickly deactivated the chute and put on his jacket as he ran toward the spot where the baton was hidden. Sam had never switched on a baton, but he knew the mechanism from his studies and hoped that his memories and instincts would serve him well during the ride. The light cycle that manifested was his size: smaller and quicker than a regular bike. He was far away by the time the first guards ran out of the gates.  
  
XIV.  
  
  It was a long chase, through the city, the war zone and then the ruins of the ISO City. Contrary to his expectations the first part was the easiest; he left the red light cycles behind and reached the new outer districts fairly quickly. There were close calls, when a red bike cut in and he barely made it to the underground channels before the jets appeared. Crossing the war zone he lost most of his pursuers: they could not find the paths that Sam found with his programmer abilities and once he turned down the lights of his tiny bike, the programs on the jets could not see him anymore on the scorched ground.  
  
  The ruins of Arjia City were dark and deserted. Sam slowed down his vehicle as he entered the old city center. The glory was gone along with the white lights and the ethereal music that had once filled those streets. And then the programs appeared, savage looking ISOs and Basics, with batons and discs in their hands. Sam dismounted and deactivated the bike.  
  
  “Such warm welcome,” he murmured. He saw the recognition in the programs’ eyes.  
  
  A yell. An embrace. Tears. It was strange to see how different his father had become; the ten cycles they had spent in the system was the equivalent of two months back at home and so they appearance should have not changed. Yet Flynn was worn out, broken: his eyes dark and emotionless as he walked out of a tent to the commotion on the street. His expression changed then and first became painful as he picked his son up and hugged him so forcefully that it hurt. Then hate and victory filled his eyes as he turned toward the lights of Tron City, with Sam in his arms.  
  
  “Don’t you dare,” said Sam, still smiling. Flynn looked at him from close, surprisedly – then the realization came. Flynn put him down and they walked in the tent.  
  
  Sam had to tell everything and he did, almost: that he had not been hurt, that he had been taken care. His father’s story was much shorter; it was only about devastation and lost hope, death.  
  
  “But we are going home now,” said Flynn.  
  
  “Yes,” replied Sam. His father looked at him, pondering.  
  
  “Then why…?” he asked. “It was an enormous mistake to bring you here, but I will make it right. Once we are home… You will get your life back. You don’t have to be concerned about those programs, not anymore.”  
  
  Sam chuckled.  
  
  “Those programs raised me,” he said. Regret showed on his father’s face.  
  
  “I… I’m sorry,” he said. “This should have never happened this way.”  
  
  “Yes, I know.”  
  
  “Then you know, that they must go down, so we can go home.”  
  
  “Sure. And with that you would destroy everything that has actually developed during these cycles. Your programs. My programs.”  
  
  “Your programs,” repeated Flynn. Sam nodded. “I’ve seen your work.”  
  
  They sat in silence. Sound of footsteps and talk came from the street.  
  
  “We don’t have much time left,” said Flynn.  
  
  “Why?”  
  
  “Clu knows, that you are here. He also knows that I would destroy him now. It’s just the matter of time for the Recognizers to come. It’s either us or them.”  
  
  “No, if you are willing to make a deal,” replied Sam.  
  
  “I’ve always been. I offered him everything in exchange for you.”  
  
  “Yes, knowing that you can delete him as soon as we get out.”  
  
  “Of course,” said Flynn, confused. Sam smiled.  
  
  “Well,” he said. “You have to accept that you lost the system.”  
  
  “How do you mean that?”  
  
  “I mean, he built a working system, while you created this,” said Sam, gesturing at the ruined settlement outside of the tent.  
  
  “You sided with him,” said Flynn in astonishment. Sam laughed bitterly.  
  
  “Did I, dad?” he asked. “I’ve spent the last ten years locked up. I’ve seen the programs that were on my side being slaughtered and abused by him and his minions. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s been doing nothing else, but executing your orders. Should you be on the other side of the computer, you could rewrite or delete him, sure. But you are here, facing your mistakes, facing the distorted image of your mighty dreams. And it is not a mistake that you can erase with a keystroke. You have to accept it, or we will both die here.”  
  
  Flynn was staring at him.  
  
  “You’ve grown up,” he said after long. Sam was waiting.  
  
  “I know, that it was your life’s work,” he said. “It must be hard, but you have to give it up.”  
  
  Some deep, distant rumbling started: the sound of approaching light jets and Recognizers.  
  
  “I gave up already,” said Flynn. He stood up. The noises became louder. Screaming started on the street.  
  
  “Say it,” replied Sam. He rose as well. “Say it, and this time mean it.”  
  
  “I’d have given it all up for one more day with you,” said Flynn. Outside the aircrafts slowed down before they would have reached the ruined city, circled for a while and then they turned back.  
  
XV.  
  
  The peace talks took place in the middle of the war zone. There was considerable distrust at the beginning as the high-ranked Reds and the feral looking User-believers were glaring at each other and it went even worse when the conditions were enumerated. The ISOs were yelling; Clu wanted all of them out of the Grid.  
  
  “They were born here,” said Flynn. They were all seated, the parties on two sides.  
  
  “They can stay,” replied Clu. “And then they will derezz here as well.”  
  
  The screaming started again. Clu grinned at the ISOs with disdain. His superiority was palpable since he had arrived – but as he was sitting in front of Flynn, Sam saw the same desperate determination on his face which was engraved on his father’s features. He was standing next to Flynn, from there he watched the Red delegation, in their flawless uniforms and their impeccable appearance. Flynn’s followers and the ISOs looked rather patchy next to them.  
  
  The ISOs left the scene after the agreement: they went to say goodbye to their old lands.  
  
  “You leave,” said Clu, “and you take them all. You supply the system and you’ll be allowed to return later. You will get one more chance.”  
  
  Flynn’s face was burning; he still had hard time to accept that he had to make a pledge to a program and actually be willing to keep it. Then he looked at Sam and nodded.  
  
  “All the ISOs,” he said. “And all the other programs that want to come.”  
  
  Now it was the Red delegations’ turn to yell and shake their fists.  
  
  “You’ll be left with just enough,” said Flynn. “Not many will want to leave their homes for the unknown.”  
  
  Clu looked at Sam. The boy was staring at him, straight in the eye.  
  
  “Take them,” said Clu and the stood up.  
  
  The message was sent out to the real world for three times, right after one another.  
  
  “For him it will take hours between the pages,” explained Flynn while they were standing in the control room of the communication tower.  
  
  “I can’t believe, that this was your emergency plan,” said Sam. “Alan will get the pages with the phone number of the Arcade. How do you expect him to find the office?”  
  
  “The guys that work at the Arcade will know nothing about the pages,” replied Flynn, his face was burning after Sam’s remark. “Two months. He will be desperate enough to go back after hours and find the place.”  
  
  “And if not?”  
  
  “Then we will send it again. Just the matter of time.”  
  
  “Well, time is all we have,” replied Sam and let out a loud, sarcastic laugh. He was not mad at his father; it was just impossible to carry on with a straight face.  
  
  “You are so different,” said Flynn. “It’s all my fault, but…”  
  
  “Who cares, whose fault? We are alive.”  
  
  “How will you go on with your life?” asked Flynn. His expression revealed that it was a question he had been thinking about since long. “You are a child, but also not a child anymore.”  
  
  “I’ll go back to the school, I guess.”  
  
  “To the second grade? With your experience?”  
  
  “How is my experience relevant to the daily life at home? I could get a degree in Math right now, yes. But I would be in trouble fixing a peanut butter sandwich or even to handle a simple conversation with people. So I guess I’m going back to the school.”  
  
  His father nodded, gravely.  
  
  “Then I might skip a few classes,” added Sam. Flynn looked at him and smiled, for the first time since they had met in the city.  
  
XVI.  
  
  A small carrier ship delivered the programs that wished to leave the system with the Creator and the ISOs. Sam was sitting on a pile of debris as he was waiting for the ship and rose when the lights appeared on the sky. The programs walked down the ramp; there were about two hundred of them. They looked around warily as they exited the ship – but none of them turned back. Most of them waved to friends in the crowd of the rebels.  
  
  Tron exited the ship for the last, making sure that everybody left. Sam could not help, but smiled when the program showed up: upon the way Tron walked and moved it was obvious that he had reinstated himself as a security program and could not wait for an encounter with some prowling bug. Amidst the crowd Sam walked there; his throat clenched, so he reached out and offered his hand – the program took and shook it with a wide smile on his face. That smile faded somewhat when Flynn joined them and threw his arms around his long lost friend. Tron greeted him politely and answered his questions, but the mood of frustration and resentment was palpable.  
  
  “A whole life won’t be enough to fix the mess I have made,” sighed Flynn later.  
  
  “You’ll have the chance,” replied Sam. “”And the time. Because time is still all we have.”  
  
  The time ran out a few microcycles later, when the portal lit up. Sam was in the tent when he heard the yelling – he walked out and saw the programs staring at the beam of light, many of them were kneeling on the ground.  
  
  A ship approached the settlement: Clu’s own vehicle. The system administrator program walked out, surrounded by guards and other Reds. He was very serious.  
  
  “We have the User,” he told Flynn. “They are on the way here. Don’t forget your promises.”  
  
  “I won’t,” replied Flynn. While they were talking Sam set his eyes on Quinn, who was standing in the back. She seemed to be furious. Sam glanced back above his shoulder and saw that Tron, who had come ahead earlier, when the ship had landed, activated his helmet and held himself in a defensive posture. The boy walked to Quinn.  
  
  “Thank you, for what you have done for me,” he said. “But I feel sorry for you. You know so much about User sciences: you should have learnt mercy too.”  
  
  He stepped back. Quinn was fuming; she did not reply. The Throne Ship left before the arrival of the small jet that brought the captured User.  
  
  “I know that you’ve been waiting for this moment,” said Sam to Tron. The program had let his helmet retract, when the ship left and now he looked at the boy with great amazement. “But I don’t think Alan would be able to take this now.”  
  
  Tron nodded and reactivated his helmet.  
  
  Alan Bradley appeared to be very cautious as he walked out of the ship; then he saw Sam and he broke up. He ran there, picked up the boy and hugged him so strongly that it hurt.  
  
  “Are you fine?” he asked. “You are not hurt?”  
  
  “I’m fine,” said Sam quietly. He had not seen his father’s friend since ten years – but Alan seemed to be equally tortured by the two months that had passed in his world. He had lost many pounds, his eyes were red, his face unshaven. He wore his unfashionable, brown sweater and pants.  
  
  “We thought you’ve been kidnapped,” said Alan. Flynn joined them; that was when both men began to cry. “And when nobody asked for money we thought you were both dead.”  
  
  Sam was watching them: he understood their emotions, and it was the time to cry – just not for him.  
  
  “Where are we?” asked Alan, once they calmed down.  
  
  “I will tell you everything,” said Flynn. “Just get the hell out of here.”  
  
  The three of them walked to the ship that was to take them to the portal. Tron escorted them to the ramp.  
  
  “Sam,” whispered Alan. “Is this your friend? Why is he staring at me?”  
  
  “He likes your jacket, Alan,” replied Sam. Alan seemed to be utterly confused, while the distorted sounds that came from Tron’s helmet let Sam know that the program was laughing quietly.  
  
  The ship lifted up: the programs below were watching; their faces were like tiny, white coins. Some of them waved with their hands, others were crying. The ISOs sang. The ship made a circle above the camp and then headed toward the portal.  
  
XVII.  
  
  “What happened?” asked Alan. He was driving: they were on the way home. “What was this whole thing? Was I drugged?”  
  
  “I will tell you everything,” said Flynn. “Later.”  
  
  After the transmission both him and Sam were mildly disoriented: after sitting for a few minutes Flynn quickly attached a hard drive and extracted the programs from the camp.  
  
  “There is no energy on a hard drive,” he said. “They are sleeping now.”  
  
  Sam nodded: somehow the statement made his heart ache. They walked out of the closed Arcade and took the car.  
  
  Alan wanted to go to the police; Flynn insisted to bring Sam to the dinner. The boy just wanted to go home. At the end they decided to go home - they stopped at a gas station, from where Alan made a few phone calls, and Flynn bought a candy apple for Sam. The boy tried it, but it was too sweet, too savory for him; he wrapped it back and put it in his pocket.  
  
  “There are so many things,” said Alan. As his initial shock passed, he was cheerful and excited now. “The board… You’ll see! But for now, we are going home. I called Lora and your parents. And our closest friends.”  
  
  “Christ, Alan,” said Flynn. “There will be a banquet by the time we get there.”  
  
  Christmas lights were everywhere: smells, sounds, music. Sam was watching the water as they drove along the river toward the house. He kept on thinking about the programs on the hard drive. Even from far distance they could see that there were many cars parked outside of the house; all the windows were lit up.  
  
  “Can we stop for a minute?” asked Sam suddenly. The men glanced at him with surprise. Sam climbed out as the car stopped and he walked to the bank. It was dark and chilly, the wind carried the smell of the river. The boy was thinking about the programs, as they were sleeping there, waiting to be wakened in a free system. He remembered their faces as they had been watching the ascending ship, the hope on their faces in the Users that would bring peace to the Grid as they once had brought there fire.  
  
  “My dear friend,” Sam whispered. “I wish…”  
  
  A long-felt stinging started in his eyes; he was standing there, facing the water as the tears were streaming down on his face.

 

  
12th of December, 1990

 

 


End file.
